


Holidays Meetings

by azriona



Series: Advent Calendar Drabbles 2017 [8]
Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Advent Calendar Drabble, Alternate Universe - Bakery, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, First Meetings, Fluff and Humor, Hanukkah, Hockey Coach Jack Zimmermann, Jewish Character, Jewish Jack Zimmermann, M/M, Meet-Cute, Professional Baker Eric Bittle
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-19
Updated: 2017-12-19
Packaged: 2019-02-17 03:27:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,076
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13068153
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/azriona/pseuds/azriona
Summary: Jack never went to Samwell... but Bitty still bakes, and they'll still find each other. It doesn't even take a miracle - just a window with the right color lights.





	Holidays Meetings

**Author's Note:**

  * For [PorcupineGirl](https://archiveofourown.org/users/PorcupineGirl/gifts).



> It’s the eighth and final night of Hanukkah… and porcupine-girl requested a holiday-themed meet-cute for Jack and Eric. I had so much fun writing this, it might just reappear in a longer format later on. (Oh, the ideas and plot twists I ignored to make sure I finished on time!) 
> 
> And so concludes the Hanukkah Holiday Drabbles - thank you to everyone who prompted, read, kudoes, commented, and reblogged. I appreciate all of you. I'll be traveling the next few days so I'm not sure when I'll be able to respond to comments, but I greatly look forward to hearing from you. Happy Holidays!

It was snowing, and the entire town was decorated for Christmas. Red and green lights hung on every awning; single candles shone from every window. Most of the restaurants had erected tiny Christmas trees complete with gaily wrapped fake presents underneath and featuring bows that never existed on actual boxes intended for someone to eventually open.

 _Try our home-made egg nog!_ boasted chalk-board signs. _Today’s special: roasted-red pepper pumpkin soup!_

Jack Zimmermann hunched his shoulders against the cold, bowed his head, and kept going. It was a quarter-mile walk from the hotel to the campus where the coach’s conference was being held, and what had seemed like a short distance when he’d made the reservation hadn’t taken the cold or the snow into account.

Then again, Jack hadn’t taken the calendar into account when he’d registered, either. A one-week conference for pee-wee hockey coaches at a discounted rate? Sure it was the week before Christmas, but it wasn’t as if Jack celebrated Christmas – and it wasn’t until a few days before he’d flown that he’d bothered to check the calendar at all.

In the early morning, downtown Samwell was quiet except for the crunch of Jack’s boots on the thin layer of snow, and the whisper of additional snow falling. There were a few cars here or there, people undoubtedly going from home to work or even work to home, and somewhere down the street, Jack could see a newspaper truck unloading the daily report to a shopkeeper who wasn’t quite bundled up as much as he should have been for standing out in the cold. Mostly, though, Jack was alone, surrounded by thousands of twinkling red and green lights.

It was appropriate, at least – not that Jack needed the reminder. He’d been a twinkling light in the world of hockey himself once – and then it had all ended in a hotel bathroom the night before the draft five years before. He’d been stupid and unfocused and distracted, and had made a mathematical error that had nearly cost him his life. Instead of a glittery hockey career, he’d had a trip to the emergency room, a stomach pump, and two months in rehab.

But it wasn’t the emergency room or the stomach pump or the rehab that saved him.

Jack was lost in thought – mostly about the day’s upcoming lectures – and almost missed the patch of white and blue in the window as he passed it. Maybe it was the blue and silver tinsel, or the silly smiling dreidel window-cling that caught his eye, but when he noticed the full display, he stopped and soaked it in.

It wasn’t very large, though the window itself took up nearly the entire front end of the shop. Inside, Jack could see tables and chairs strewn about, and beyond that, a counter and a chalkboard listing specials of the day. Jack couldn’t see anyone working, but he saw movement behind a glass case that was slowly filling up with scones, muffins, and the like.

The window, however: the window was outlined in white and blue lights, a cool and cheerful oasis in the sea of green and red surrounding them. The sill was laid out in a glittery white fabric with a shiny silver length of silk running like a stream through it. Brightly colored dreidels of every design were scattered on the fabric: intricately carved wooden dreidels, beautifully colored glass dreidels, even some of the silly plastic dreidels that Jack remembered played with as a kid, the ones that never spun right and always ended up with _nun_ showing. White plates and cake stands were spread around, and on them were the standard cupcakes and muffins and other baked treats. In the center of it all was an electric menorah, though not a single light was shining just yet.

Jack’s stomach rumbled, just as he caught sight of movement behind the counter. Whoever had been stocking the glass case was just disappearing into the back.

It likely was too early for the shop to be open, but stepping away was unthinkable. Instead, Jack reached for the door, sure it would be locked tight.

Instead, it opened.

And Jack went inside.

*

“Jimmies, jimmies, jimmies,” muttered Eric Bittle, rummaging through the shelves above his workstation. They were _somewhere_ , he’d just used them, he was normally _not_ this disorganized, MooMaw would be _ashamed_ , plus he’d seen the price tag on the container and damned if he’d have to ask Holster to send him _another_ $10 jar of star-of-David jimmies when he hadn’t even been halfway through the first. Lord have mercy.

The bell from the front door rang merrily. Probably Hank come in for his blueberry muffin and black coffee. Hank was the only one who ever came in so early, but the bakery had been opening for him at the end of his night shift for twenty years and Eric wasn’t going to be the one to break tradition.

“Be right there!” Bitty called over his shoulder, wondering if it was all right to say _Lord have mercy_ about a Jewish decoration, but then deciding it was fine because wasn’t it the same Lord anyway? If Jesus had been alive, he’d have wanted star-of-David jimmies on his white chocolate coconut cream cupcake too, more’n likely.

“Take your time,” replied someone who wasn’t Hank. For one thing, he sounded a lot younger than Hank, who’d probably been working security at Samwell College since the Hoover administration. For another, he had an _accent_.

Hank had an accent: the flat, broad tones of New England that Bitty had grown to like. This accent wasn’t that: it was softer on Bitty’s Southern-raised ears.

Bitty spied the jar of jimmies, and went to appease his curiosity.

The customer on the other side of the counter was bundled up for the cold, but he’d taken off his hat and was sporting perhaps the world’s worst case of hat hair. Half of the black mop sprung up at attention from his head, the other half was flatter than Aunt Bessie’s pancakes. He was young – definitely younger than Hank – with lightly tanned skin and blue eyes that matched the blue decorations in the window. It was hard to tell under all the winter clothes, but he looked pretty well-built, too – he had wide shoulders and his legs were long. If it hadn’t been for the hair, Bitty might have called him handsome. As it was, he wasn’t a bad way to start the day. Bitty stifled a giggle at the hair – one did not giggle at customers – and leaned on the counter with a smile.

“Good morning!” he said brightly. “What can I get for you?”

The customer glanced up from the glass case, stared at Bitty for a moment, and then swallowed. “Um. Sorry. I saw the window display, and I… um, do you have any _sufganiyot_?”

“Oh, gosh, yes, but not ‘til this afternoon,” apologized Bitty. “I’m the only one here in the mornings and I can’t make ‘em and run the till at the same time, you know? Come back around two, they’ll be ready then. D’you like raspberry or lemon cream?”

The _look_ the man gave him when Bitty said _lemon cream_ exactly matched the expression Holster had when Bitty had tried it the first time: incredulous, with a huge dose of someone wanting to go on a tear about cultural appropriation. “Raspberry,” said the man firmly, and then his expression changed to one of disappointment. “But I can’t come back at two, I’m in lectures until five.”

The disappointed look somehow fit much too well on that face, as if it was second-nature more than the smile that Bitty had seen only briefly. “I’ll save you one, if you want,” he offered. “There’s a class gets out at two, and they always eat up the lot.”

“Oh,” said the man. “That’d be… um… nice. Thank you.”

“Sure thing,” said Bitty cheerfully. “What would you like in the meantime? You’re not allowed to leave empty-handed,” Bitty added with mock-sternness. “And there’s some maple cinnamon chip scones coming out of the oven in a few minutes.”

The man’s eyes lit up. Bitty grinned, just as he heard the ding from the oven in the back.

“Go pour yourself a coffee,” Bitty ordered him. “And I’ll be right out with the scones.”

The scones were done just right, though the ones from the back corner were a little _too_ brown. The oven was _definitely_ too hot in that corner; Bitty probably should have called the repairman but Dex was faster and more reliable and would only charge a tray of cinnamon rolls and a blueberry bramble pie.

The scones are still too hot to ice properly, but Bitty had the idea that left too long, his customer might flee. He poured a tablespoon of the frosting into a cup, plated it with one of the still-warm scones, and carried it all out to the front room, half expecting him to be gone already.

He wasn’t. He was sitting at a table closest to the window display, tapping one of the twirling silver ribbons that hung down. When Bitty came in, he pulled his hand away fast and gave Bitty a guilty look as he stood up. Bitty spied the take-away cup of coffee sitting on the table, still steaming.

“You don’t have to go, if you don’t want,” Bitty told him. “I know I talk a lot, but I won’t talk off your ear unless you want.”

“It’s fine,” said the customer, in that awkward way people did when they really didn’t want to be talked at but were afraid of saying so. But he didn’t get up and make as though to leave, either – especially since since Bitty had gone in the back, he’d undone his coat and scarf, too. “I don’t want to get you in trouble with your boss.”

Bitty chuckled and set the plate down on the table. It clanked in a very comforting way. “Not much chance of that. Here you go. Just out of the oven. They’re too warm for the icing to set proper but don’t you dare skip it, it’s the best part. Plus that’s where most of the maple flavor is. You can dip or spread it if you like, I won’t tell.”

“Thanks,” said the customer. “How much do I owe you?”

But before Bitty could answer, the real Hank came in, shuffling with his cane and offering a bright smile to Bitty.

“Hullo, Bitty, see I’ve got competition!”

“Never, Mr. Hank,” said Bitty loyally, walking back to the counter. “My heart and the first blueberry muffin of the day always belong to you.”

After that, the morning sped up a bit. Early morning commuters taking the train to Boston, professors coming in for the dreaded 8am classes, an entire group of students slightly hung over not from alcohol but from an all-night study session, dark circles under their eyes and shaking from too much caffeine.

“Oh, no, none of that,” said Bitty firmly when he saw them making their way for the self-serve coffee station. “ _Back_ , or I’ll call your mothers.”

They held back, despite the empty threat. Bitty parceled out orange juices and ricotta strawberry muffins, and sent them away with strict orders to go straight to bed once their papers were turned in.

“And don’t you dare go to Annie’s or I’ll know about it!” he shouted after them.

Throughout the chaos, he’d managed to keep half an eye on his nameless customer by the window. As soon as he turned from the door, he glanced at the table again – only to find it empty.

“Oh, shoot,” he said, mildly annoyed, but mostly disappointed to see that somehow, in the rush of people, he’d missed the man leaving.

There was a cough behind him, and Bitty spun around to see the man standing by the trash can. His coat was zipped back up, his scarf was wound around his neck, and he was easily a head taller than Bitty himself.

Plus, up close, his eyes were even more blue than Bitty had thought.

“I wasn’t going to dine and dash,” said the man. “You just seemed busy, so I thought I’d clear my own table.”

“Thanks,” said Bitty. “You’d be surprised who doesn’t.”

The man’s smile was brief as he pulled out his wallet. “How much do I owe you for the scone and coffee?”

The bell on the door – silent for the last minute – rang again loudly as a group of sorority sisters came streaming in.

Bitty waved him away. “It’s all right. You can pay up this afternoon when you come in for the doughnut.”

The man’s eyes darted to the new customer. “Are you--?”

“Yes,” said Bitty firmly. “I’ll put that donut aside for you, all right? Have a good lecture, now!”

The last was over Bitty’s shoulder as he headed back behind the counter.

The next time he looked at the door – the man was gone. But Bitty’s heart was still pounding a bit.

It wasn’t that he cared about the cost of the scone or the coffee – which was free with purchase anyway. Bitty wrote off so many baked goods that it gave Shitty a headache every month when it was time to do the accounting. Anyway, nine times out of ten, the person came back to pay for whatever it was he’d comped for them.

Bitty was willing bet that this guy would definitely be one of the nine.

It wasn’t until that afternoon as he was pulling the sugar donuts out of the fryer that he realized.

He’d forgotten to get the man’s name.

*

All morning long, Jack thought about the bakery. He listened to lectures about the psychology behind young athletes and remembered the comfortable warmth from the ovens competing against the cold from the windows and continually opening door. He discussed the pros and cons of checking at various levels of the sport, and tasted the way maple icing mixed with the cinnamon chips in a warm, chewy scone. He watched footage of a game he’d seen a dozen times as a child, and remembered the thin coffee that didn’t hold a candle to anything at Starbucks, and had the idea that he’d probably be going back for more.

But mostly – he thought about the blond-haired man behind the counter, who wore a red-and-white checked apron and a nametag that said _Eric_. Jack thought about Eric laughing, smiling, joking with customers. He thought about the way Eric concentrated when he counted people’s change out, the tip of his tongue touching the side his lip.

Jack thought about that tongue, and only belatedly realized that for the first time, he wasn’t thinking about hockey.

The last lecture of the day pulled his daydreams up short. He and the rest of the coaches watched a classic NHL game on a large screen – which was a treat in itself – and talked about how they could use that game in instructing their kids. The lecture went long by fifteen minutes, mostly because when it came time to analyze the game with the other coaches, Jack couldn’t shut up. Maybe it was because he’d memorized the games plays before he was ten. Maybe it was because there was a windbag of a coach who kept insisting that the Pens had been missing shots instead of playing down the clock. Maybe it was because the player who’d been playing the clock and not missing shots was actually Jack’s dad, giving Jack a _slight_ advantage over the typical armchair observer. Whatever the cause, he didn’t leave the lecture hall until half past five.

“You know, that’s just what your dad _says_ ,” said the windbag, following him down the steps of the lecture hall. “I mean, I’d probably say the same, if I kept missing easy shots.”

“Uh-huh.” Jack hadn’t been raised by Bad Bob Zimmermann to pay attention to idiots; he was actually very good at ignoring them.

Most of the time, anyway.

Just then, he was good only because it was much easier to focus on the slippery, icy steps of the building. The stairs were _endless_ – which was good for Jack’s concentration.

Not so good for the windbag, who found the longer walk to be reason to keep talking.

“Shouldn’t surprise me, really,” said the windbag. “I mean, that was what, his next to last season playing? How many times had he been hit in the head by then? Even Bad Bob Zimmermann’s got to miss a few shots now and then. How many he’d miss in the last game of his career?”

“One.”

Jack glanced over to the side, but didn’t recognize the third person. He was dressed in a light brown corduroy jacket and jeans, no hat, and canvas shoes. He also had the most impressive moustache Jack had seen on anyone younger than twenty-five, and didn’t seem the least bit cold.

“One, exactly,” agreed Windbag. “So, not outside the realm of possibility.”

“Of course not, if you’re fucking _stupid_ ,” said Moustache.

Windbag stopped on the steps. “Um. What?”

“I mean, this is Bad Bob Zimmermann we’re talking about, right?” continued Moustache. “Four-time Stanley Cup winner? Highest earner in the NHL for, what, five seasons in a row? Winner of Entertainment Weekly’s Best-Looking Athlete – what, seven times? Eight?”

Jack shrugged. “I dunno, I never counted. Ask my mom.”

“Getting traded to the Pens was a _crime_ against humanity,” said Moustache.

“Yeah, but my mom’s from there,” explained Jack. “And my grandmother was sick.”

Moustache shook his head and made approving noises. “See, humanitarian as well. _Fuck_ , I love that man.”

“Look,” said Windbag. “You can like him all you want. The guy missed shots.”

“Of course he did, he’s only human,” said Moustache. “But you’re saying he missed them _deliberately_ , which is something different. And then _lied_ about it, which is something reprehensible, and also there’s about five thousand sports enthusiasts who have studied tape for”—Moustache frowned, thinking—“ _Shit_. Has it really been twenty-five years since that game?”

“Twenty-seven,” said Jack.

“Suffice to say,” continued Moustache, “you’re wrong. You’re also a rude idiot who doesn’t seem to realize that your opinion is not only unwanted, but unnecessary, and what’s more, is stomping on my good man’s squee.”

“My what?” asked Jack, confused.

“Be gone,” Moustache said Windbag. “Away. Off with you. Tally ho.”

“But—”

And _then_ Moustache got mean. Jack wasn’t sure _how_ , but his entire face changed from something that resembled the kindly old uncle who liked moonshine just a titch too much, to the horrific fairy-tale character of the evil elf gone awry and bent on killing every child in a ten-mile radius.

Even Windbag took a step back, and nearly fell down the steps.

“ _Scram_ ,” said Moustache.

Windbag _scrammed_.

“Huh,” said Jack, staring after the retreating asshole.

“Nice meeting you,” said Moustache. “Say hi to your dad for me.”

“Wait – but – who—?”

Moustache was gone, whistling brightly, and heading in the opposite directly from the bakery. Jack shook his head and figured it’d be one of those mysteries, and filed the story away to tell his father when he got back home. It was definitely something that would make Bad Bob howl with laughter.

The street with the bakery was eerily the same when Jack finally turned down it a few minutes later. At quarter to six, most of the shops were closed again, though the restaurants looked as if they were doing a reasonable trade. The Christmas lights were still shining brightly in red and green and gold; there were more cars moving up and down the street, and the sidewalk had been shoveled and sanded and pounded by hundreds of feet, creating a dark slush on the side that didn’t bear examination.

It was both pretty and depressing, and Jack huddled in his coat as he hurried along, until he saw the happily twinkling white-and-blue lights of the bakery across the street. The lights twinkled brightly, a cool and welcoming oasis in a sea of Christmas indulgence, and someone had turned the menorah on, although only the _shamash_ candle in the center was shining. The bakery itself was empty inside, just as it had been that morning, though this time, Jack could see Eric slowly sweeping the floor, glancing up at the glass every now and then before shaking his head and resuming his work.

Jack’s heart did a tiny flip.

Jack crossed the street at a jog and hurried up to the door. Eric beat him to it, and for a brief moment Jack thought he was going to open the door for him. Jack broke into a grin, feeling a rush of pleasurable warmth flow through him. It was better than stepping out on the ice to the roar of the crowd, better than watching the kids on his team score a winning goal, better than sitting at the table in his mother’s kitchen to a plate of crispy fried latkes—

Jack’s heart did _another_ little flip as Eric reached up…

…and flipped the sign from _Open_ to _Closed._

“ _Merde, non_ ,” groaned Jack, the French slipping out before he could stop it.

Through the glass, Eric let out a gasp, and then there was a loud banging as he fumbled with the door, unlocking it and pulling it open.

“You’re late,” he scolded, but Jack thought he heard some relief in his tone, too.

“I’m sorry. I had some trouble getting out on time,” admitted Jack. “And… maybe a bit lost, too.”

“Hmm. Well, come on in, I’ve got your _sufganiyot_ for you.”

“I’m paying first, this time,” said Jack firmly as he stepped inside, and the guy laughed.

“I won’t stop you, I need to count the drawer anyway. Mind if I lock the door? I’m not trying to keep you in, just trying to keep others out.”

“Sorry,” repeated Jack, and the man waved it away.

“It’s fine. I like company when I close up anyway. Sit down, I’ll get your donut. Do you want anything else? Coffee? Tea?”

“Water,” said Jack. “Room temp if you can, no ice.”

“Sure thing, back in a jiffy.”

Now that he was inside, Jack could see the signs of the bakery already in the closing-down process. The tables were pushed against the wall, chairs upturned on each one. The lights were dimmed, and the coffeemaker had been unplugged and cleaned out. Even the glass case for the treats was cleaned out, though there was a large pile of shrink-wrapped items that would surely be sold half price the next morning.

Jack took down a chair and sat at the same table as before, stretching out his legs as he unzipped and unwound his winter outerwear. He could hear Eric knocking around in the back, and when he reappeared, he had a plate with two donuts, a glass, and a bottle of water tucked under his arm.

“All set,” said Eric cheerfully. “Now, I know you made a face, but I saved a lemon cream for you anyway. On the house.”

“You can’t do that,” protested Jack.

“Yes, I can,” insisted Eric firmly. “But I’ll tell you what. I’ll only make you pay if you hate it. Now take a bite so I can ring you up proper.”

Jack picked up the sugar-coated donut and gave it a cursory look. It was soft, maybe half the size of a cream-filled donut that he’d get at Dunkin, but he could smell the yeast and sugar and something sharper, too – probably the lemon.

Jack sighed, and took a bite.

The first thing he realized was that the powdered sugar was flavored – it wasn’t just sweet, it was actually _tart_ , sharp with a citrusy tang. The donut practically melted in his mouth, and the cream?

Rich, custardy, sweet and tart and delicious. There was a bite to it, and a little bit of roughness too, like the sugar had crystalized a little bit. When Jack’s teeth bit down on the granules, they exploded with more lemon flavor in his mouth.

“Wow,” said Jack, forgetting to swallow, and then he had to cover his mouth to make sure none fell out. Eric just smirked at him.

“So I’ll just ring you up for the donut and the scone, right?” he said, clearly able to read Jack’s taste buds.

“Two donuts,” said Jack through a mouthful of donut. “This is awful. Worst thing I’ve ever tasted.”

“Mm-hmm,” said Eric. He sounded amused as he turned to ring Jack up. “One donut, one scone. And a bottle of water.”

Jack swallowed. “And a coffee.”

“Coffee’s on the house when you purchase a pastry,” Eric called over the counter.

Jack wasn’t going to argue with that. Instead, he finished the lemon donut and started in on the raspberry jelly, which was just as delicious. The raspberry jelly wasn’t too sweet, the donut cake was soft on the inside and perfectly fried on the outside, and Eric had clearly stuck with the classic plain powdered sugar for a coating, which Jack appreciated, though he thought there was some granulated there for crunch.

He was licking his fingers by the time Eric returned with his check. “Guess you liked them,” said Eric approvingly. “Or you’re starving.”

“Both,” admitted Jack. He dug his wallet out of his back pocket. “The cafeteria at Samwell’s all right, but…”

Eric laughed. “Yeah, I avoided it after freshman year, too. A’course, I was living in the Haus by then, so I had access to an actual kitchen. By the time the oven died my senior year, I was working here anyway, so.” He shrugged.

“You went to Samwell?”

Eric nodded. “Class of ’17, American Studies. Which absolutely qualifies me to run a bakery,” he added wryly.

Jack smiled. “ _North_ American Studies. Which is what it’s called when you’re in Canada and don’t want to admit you’re studying the United States, too.”

“ _Oh_. That explains the accent!”

Jack frowned. “I don’t have an accent.”

Eric chuckled and picked up his empty plate. “Yes, you do.”

“I don’t!” insisted Jack. “I’ve spoken English since I was _two_.”

“You do!” sang Eric over his shoulder. “Nothing to be ashamed of, Mr…. oh, Lordy. Now I’m ashamed, I don’t even know your name.”

“Jack Zimmermann.”

Eric smiled at him. “Nice to meet you, Mr. Zimmermann. I’m Eric Bittle.”

“I know,” said Jack. “You’ve got a nametag.”

“Oh!” Eric’s mouth dropped open and he slapped a hand on his nametag. “Oh, gosh, I forgot all about that. Silly me. I’m always doing that; I walked across campus one day and wondered why everyone was calling my name and saying hello, and wouldn’t you know, I’d left my nametag on?”

The memory of people calling Jack’s name wasn’t nearly as pleasant, but Jack knew small talk when he heard it. His smile was somewhat shaky, but Eric was busy at the till anyway.

“So what brings you to Samwell, Mr. Zimmermann?”

“Hockey conference,” said Jack. He saw Eric’s surprised look. “I coach a pee-wee team in Montreal.”

“Huh,” said Eric, walking back over with Jack’s change. “Ain’t that something?”

There’s a strange tone to Eric’s words – almost as if he is actually pleasantly surprised instead of merely commenting. “Yeah?”

Eric set down the change. “I was on the hockey team here in school. On an athletic scholarship, come to that.”

“You must have been good,” said Jack.

Eric shrugged – and to Jack’s surprise and delight, he even sat down. “Middling to okay. I was first string my freshman year, but got knocked pretty good at the end of the season.”

Jack winced. “I’m sorry to hear that.”

“Me too,” said Eric. “Anyway, that was it for my hockey career. Just as well, the checking scared the bejeesus out of me.”

Jack leaned in. “Me too, honestly.”

“You played?”

Jack nodded, already feeling his throat choke up, but Eric kept talking.

“Of course you played, if you coach. I thought about it, but – yeah. It was hard, getting back on the ice after that. I haven’t really been back at all since my last season. Couldn’t really take the checking, you know? At least I didn’t lose my scholarship.”

Jack nodded. “That would have been rough.”

Eric nodded, and then broke into a grin. “And honestly, who has time? This place keeps me busier than a bee.”

Which was when Jack realized. “Wait – you opened today. I’m sorry, I’m keeping you here, you’re probably on your way home by now.”

“Oh, it’s fine,” Eric assured him. “Everything’s all done except counting the drawer, and honestly, I’d be here anyway, I’m expecting—”

There was a loud knock on the glass directly opposite them; when they both turned to the window, Jack saw Moustache on the other side, grinning and bouncing his eyebrows up and down.

“There he is,” laughed Eric, hopping up to unlock the door.

Moustache swooped in with a cold rush of air. “As I live and breathe and put people in their places, _Bitty my man_ , tell me this is what I think it is.”

He grinned at Jack, utterly delighted. Jack looked back at Eric, who just looked amused.

“Do you know him?” Jack asked Eric.

“Most of the time,” said Eric. “He’s the local Harvard law school drop-out.”

“Not true,” said Mustache. “I am not _the_ local Harvard law school drop-out, there are _many_ local Harvard law school drop-outs. Also I never dropped out.”

“You’re here an awful lot for someone supposedly in his third year of law school,” said Eric as he moved back to the counter.

Mustache pointed at Jack. “You! Tell me you have worked a miracle.”

“Um,” said Jack. “No?”

“Oh, hush now,” called Eric from where he knelt behind the counter. “He was just here to eat some of Holster’s _sufganiyot_. He liked the lemon cream.”

Mustache gasped and held his chest. “ _No_.”

Jack tried not to look guilty.

Mustache leaned on the chair toward Jack. “I’ll forgive you if you manage to convince this boy to go on a date with you.”

Jack frowned. “Huh? _What_?”

Eric popped up from behind the counter so fast, with a face so red and full of fury, it would have been funny if it hadn’t been for the way Mustache absolutely _melted_ at the sight.

“ _B. Shitty Knight_ , stop it,” snapped Eric. “I am not _that_ hard up.”

Mustache – whose name was apparently _Shitty_ , and Jack wasn’t sure if that wasn’t worse – didn’t even look phased. “Oh yeah? When was the last time you went on a date that didn’t involve flour?”

Eric was blushing by then. It probably matched the one Jack was sure he was sporting. “None of your beeswax, Mr. Knight. Stop bothering my customers.”

“After hours, he’s not your customer,” said Shitty. He spun the chair opposite Jack and straddled it. “But have it your way. So, Jack, what brings you to our fair city of Samwell-on-the-Turnpike?”

Jack’s head was still reeling a little bit. “Um. Hockey conference.”

Eric let out a huff of breath and went back down behind the counter, where Jack could hear him shoving things back and forth.

“Hmm. Nice, nice,” mused Shitty. “That’s the one that Coach Hall does every year, right? Pee-wee hockey? Week-long lectures? Watch a lot of games on the big screen?”

“Yeah,” said Jack slowly.

“Okay,” said Shitty, sounding pleased. “So. What brings you into Bitty’s bakery?”

“I saw the decorations,” said Jack, nodding to the window. “Kinda stood out.”

Shitty grinned. “Yeah, don’t they just. Hey, Bitty! Nice Jewish boy here! Likes hockey! One week only, though, better act now, supplies are limited!”

There was a loud _thump_ from behind the counter, and then Eric reappeared, a pile of accounting books and a shoebox in his arms. “Stop it,” he scolded Shitty as he came around again. “You don’t even know if swings that way.”

Shitty turned to Jack. “Swing that way?”

“Um,” said Jack, not entirely sure where to look. “Yes? Sometimes? Yes.” He chanced a glance at Eric, who was still blushing hotly and trying to keep the books in his arms from falling. This time when he spoke, it was certain. “Yes.”

“There you go,” Shitty told Eric, who just sighed and dumped the books and box on the table between them with a loud thump.

“Please take these and get out of my bakery.”

Shitty rose and bowed. “As you wish.”

He winked at Jack, and taking the pile of accounting books, left the bakery.

Eric sighed the moment the door closed behind him. “I’m sorry about Shitty. He’s just… he’s a little bit enthusiastic about some things. Including my love life.”

“Ah,” said Jack, uncomfortable. “Were you and he--?”

“What? No, _no_. Shitty’s as – well, he’s not _as_ straight as they come, but believe you me, he’s not interested in dating me. _Snuggling_ , maybe.” Eric shook his head, as if to shake off a memory. “You know when you have friends who are really happy in relationships, so they think everyone else needs to be happy in one too? That’s Shitty. He thinks I’m lonely, that’s all.”

“Ah,” repeated Jack. He bit his lip. “Um. Are you?”

Eric sighed, and sat down on the chair Shitty had just vacated. “Not… really? Don’t get me wrong, I’d be happy to find love as the next person, but… it’s not nearly as easy as Shitty seems to think. He and Lardo met when they tried to open the same door at the same time, from different sides. They joke that they just walked right into each other. It took them three years to figure it out, but they got there in the end. Of course, you can’t tell that to Shitty. He thinks it really is as easy as opening a door.”

“It isn’t,” said Jack.

“I know, right?” Eric laughed a little. “Oh well. Look at me going on, and you’re probably still hungry. And I’ve got dishes in the back. Well, I won’t keep you any longer, Mr. Zimmermann.”

Eric pushed himself up with a spring, the smile back on his face. Except this time – Jack could see it was a mask.

“Come in tomorrow, I’ll save you another set of _sufganiyot_ ,” Eric was saying. “Strawberry and a vanilla cream, what do you think?”

“I think,” said Jack slowly, “that you opened the door for me earlier.”

Eric turned and stared at him with wide eyes. “I – Jack?”

Jack slowly stood up and took a step toward Eric. “All day long, all I could think about was this bakery and you. Not really in that order, but…” He took a breath. “I don’t really have three years to spend. But maybe – I could help you with those dishes? And then I can take you out to dinner.”

Eric’s eyes were still deer-in-the-headlights wide. He didn’t say a word.

Jack sighed, and turned away. “Or not. Sorry. Thanks for the—”

“Jack.”

Jack went still.

“I… I’m not really looking for a one-night stand. Or a one- _week_ stand, for that matter.”

“Neither am I,” said Jack. “But I would like to take you to dinner. And then… we’ll see what happens from there.”

Eric ducked his head, but Jack could still see the smile that spread across his face. It was real, and honest, and brighter than the menorah all lit up in the window.

“Yes,” said Eric, right before he looked back up at Jack. “I’d like that.”

“Good,” said Jack.

It took half an hour to finish washing the dishes. Eric switched off the lights, but left the lights in the window glowing. All except the electric menorah, which was still dark except for the _shamash_.

“Oh, wait,” said Jack, just as Eric was ready to step out the door. He leaned over and turned the bulb on the far right until it glowed blue. “There you go.”

Eric was smiling softly when Jack turned back to him. “Happy Hanukkah, Jack.”

“Happy Hanukkah,” said Jack.

And maybe it was too early – after all, they’d known each other for less than a day – but kissing Eric’s cheek felt like the right thing to do.

Given the way Eric’s eyes shone at him when he pulled back – and the way Jack felt more sure about _this_ than anything else he’d felt in his entire life – it was.

 


End file.
